


Here We Stay, Ignotum Per Ignotius

by herestolookingatyou



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 1940s, Alternate History, Amnesia, Artist Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Clint Barton Feels, Fashion & Couture, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, History Jokes, Lost in Time, Original Character-centric, Patriotism, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, SCIENCE!, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, Time Travel, Women Being Awesome, World War II, ish, lost in love, people being emotional, soldiers out of time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-03 22:45:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5309873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herestolookingatyou/pseuds/herestolookingatyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Diana Marie Strauss proves to be a simultaneously legitimate alias and convenient dead end, Coulson tells Fury what he's suspected since this morning.<br/>"What are you thinking, Coulson?"<br/>"I’m thinking S.H.E.I.L.D. is stepping into something bigger than just natural energy sources and tide manipulation."<br/>With that, he signs off the comms line, and holds out his badge for the nurse to examine, “Hello, Special Agent Phil Coulson, SHEILD. I was wondering if there was someone I could speak to about one of your ICU patients.”</p><p> </p><p>Even when you think the ground is finally firmly underfoot, nobody knows what the future holds. But then again. Most people don't let Howard Stark mess with their destiny. As it stands, there are some things which no amount of knowledge can help a person understand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tomorrow's Mystery

**2011**  
**Philadelphia, Pennsylvania**

  
Diana is not at all impressed with the story she’s been hearing. Not even slightly. In fact, what she is feeling is beginning to resemble frustration the more she goes along. Because if this isn’t a reason to be upset, she’s no guarantee as to what a legitimate excuse will look like, so far as all this goes.  
Which, evidently, is not very far at all, Diana is beginning to understand.

“Looks like a clean break, in and out,” Clint says, crouched down beside the laser system. “Nothing triggered. Nothing blocked.”

Diana sighs, puts a hand to her forehead before dropping it to the gun at her hip, a subconscious bid for comfort.

“Fifth one this month,” Diana tells no one in particular, shaking her head and joining Clint, her flashlight in hand as she pushes her night-vision goggles up. Clint shuffles back a bit, signals to one of the agents beside them to hand him another scanner. “No abnormal readings, no decoding, it’s all in perfect condition, damn it!”

“Did someone hit the mainframe instead? Cut something important?”

Diana takes the scanner from his hands and starts tuning it, letting it do its thing as she pokes around. Seriously, not impressed. Someone gets into a maximum security facility without disabling or triggering the alarms, encountering any guards while simultaneously avoiding all cameras.

“It’s like they weren’t even here.”

“Well, the missing weapons would like to say otherwise.”

“Barton, this is ridiculous. And improbable. But obviously possible, or we wouldn’t be in this predicament.”

“Jeez, predicament. Don’t know how I feel with you using words like those.”

She doesn’t say anything to that and ignores it in favor of fishing through the circuit-system instead because the truth is she doesn’t either know how she feels. These things roll naturally off her tongue sometimes. Other times, words are just a mess of sounds and shapes inside her head, too awkward to pick through. It makes her wonder if everyone has to struggle to get out a full sentence after having a long think.

Like that, Diana cautions mentally, where in the hell did she pick up the term ‘have a long think’ when, to her knowledge, she’s never heard it before. Doesn’t even know why she ever would have. Or why she wouldn’t have. It’s all up in the air, so far as likelihood goes.

“Alright, this isn’t telling me anything new,” Diana clicks off the scanner and stands.

“Is it weird that I’m feeling a little impressed by this guy?”

“Yep. Highly unprofessional.”

But the amusement in her tone has him grinning.

“Nah, c’mon, you feel it too, don’t you? Like we’re dealing with the real deal and are only at the beginning? And it’s impressive.”

Does she share the sentiment? Yes, yes, she does. Actually, she’s hella impressed. It’s almost like discovering Santa is real; there is really a way to beat every security system without having to touch the mainframe or block gadget response. It’s the Holy Grail for engineers.

It’s also the bane of her existence until she can figure out what it actually is and who has it. This sucks, as she has absolutely no leads whatsoever, so locating it isn’t even an option.

“Truth? I don’t know whether to celebrate or cry. So I’m going to settle on distinctly frustrated for now.”

Clint pulls the door open, looking more than distinctly amused. “That sounds emotionally healthy.”

Diana laughs, “I work for SHEILD, Barton. Emotionally healthy is so not a requirement.”

There is static over the comms and the Black Widow’s voice sweeps through, “All clear back here. The guards have no new information.”

Diana grins widely at Barton, a spark of something undetermined warming her from within as she presses down on her comms. “Alright, let’s call it in and skedaddle. I am going to need the biggest coffee ever and some actual sleep if I’m going to do this."

And do this, she most certainly will. Determination is something she has in spades, something she hopes to never loose. Diana knows dedication the way she knows very little else.

“I’m up for a Starbucks if you are,” Clint shrugs, slinging his bow over his shoulders and drumming his fingers over his chest, nodding to passing agents as they head towards the museum’s wide, stone entrance.

“It’s three in the morning,” Natasha raises a brow as she meets them at the steps, her usually light footfall echoing faintly, the barest hint of sound in comparison the rest of the hustle and bustle filling the atrium.

“That never stopped anyone worth anything.”

Diana sniffs, “yeah, but then you’ll call me at six in the morning and we’ll get in a fight and Natasha would be forced to kill us before we can destroy the little peace she’s managed to create for herself. And, again, I would get woken up at six in the morning. So, no. I’m stopping you.” And then, thinking better of it, she amends, “Next time. I will stop you next time.”

Before anyone can respond, Diana’s phone beeps, indicating a new message. She stops, halfway down the steps, one foot bracing against the lower step as she swipes the screen to read, humming a soft note of pleasure.

“I miss the old ringtone,” Clint mutters to Natasha as they continue making their way onto the street.

“You mean the Scooby-Doo theme song you programmed in?”

“C’mon. You loved it. She loved it. There were a lot of feelings going on whenever that song played.”

Natasha doesn’t respond, only raises an unimpressed eyebrow and silently conveys just what she thinks about his theory as she discreetly hits the power-down on her Widow’s Bite. Takes down a man with a single shot, sure, but the charge on them is a travesty. She’s definitely having the boys in R&D fix that up.

Footsteps pound over cemented steps as Diana comes to a slow beside them, saying, “Coulson says we’ve got debriefing and then forty-eight hours down time.”

“That’s nice. It’s good to see that nearly dying in another country and then pulling an investigative ops straight afterwards wins us two days of reprieve,” Clint nods appreciatively.

“Don’t jump off roof tops. You’ll feel better about two day recovery time, then.”

“Thanks, Tasha. Really, I’ll take the advice to heart next time I’m being cornered and my only options are jump or die.”

They get into the quinjet and prepare for take-off with minimal bickering. Diana is strapped into the back as the pair of assassins man the cockpit, seeing as she has yet to sign off on her flight training. Diana isn't complaining, it gives her time to call Greg and tell him she'll be coming home for a couple days.

Two hours later, tucked into what is essentially a sleeping cubical for agents, she’s finishing her vente caramel macchiato and getting ready for bed. Sugar is her companion at this insane hour, Diana thinks decisively as she tosses the hot cup into the standard SHIELD garbage bin and reaches for her toothbrush. Sugar, caffeine, and the promise of a demanding, infuriating case are the only things which keep her calm and in her best frame of mind.

That is, as best a frame of mind as she knows. And Diana doesn’t know much of anything right now, only that she should probably ignore the fact that she’s humming a song she can’t remember having ever heard as she turns off the light beside her bed and snuggles deep into her mountain of blankets.

 

*

**1938**  
**New York City, New York**

It’s been a while since Rose has seen the city lights, awake and thriving as the rest of the world sleeps, and she can’t help but sigh happily, dropping her chin to rest on her fist, arm propped over the metal banister as dark hair curls into her neck.

New York, the city that never sleeps, and what a beauty it is indeed.

Who needs Hollywood glamour with all of this around; she wants to ask the world.

Honestly, Rose doesn’t even feel guilty about postponing her bedtime without Mother and Fathers’ permission, silently content in her nightgown and woolen coat, feet bare as she studies the hum and flash beyond the balcony and contemplates everything that makes New York City run. The science – biologists, chemists, engineers, and mechanics create a melody of life for society and its individuals – workers, socialites, and scholars, employees, employers, and the unemployed, all bleeding into this lovely image that keeps her up all night.

She leans over the railing and dreams with her eyes wide open of the world which surrounds her. Of the people in it and the things they do, of the creations which are surely being brought into existence this very instant, she’s just sure of it, of the sounds of jazz bands and Swing orchestra’s filling the night air and the smell of hot dog vendors and women’s perfume. She contemplates it all as she huddles close against the chilled winter air.

Its hours before she’s interrupted.

“Huh. You’re not supposed to be here, are you?”

She blinks back into reality, slow and startled as she turns her head towards the doorway and studies the young man. Tall enough to make an impression, with a character that commands awareness and respect. He’s maybe five years older than her and his eyes speak of a magnitude of intellect. There’s an unlit cigarette in his left hand and a box of matches in the other.

“I don’t know you.”

“Well, no time like the present to get acquainted, ehh?” His smile is crooked and brown eyes sparkle in amusement. It’s as if he’s laughing at her to laugh with her and Rose finds it infinitely curious. He steps up beside her and offers her a hand, matchbox clutched tight against his thumb. “Howard Stark.”

Ah, one of Daddy’s guests, then. Something to do with engineering. A pioneer, she’s heard him say to Mother.

“Rose Saxby,” she replies primly, nose in the air and she tries subtly stepping onto her tiptoes as they shake hands.

“Saxby, huh?” Mr. Stark doesn’t seem at all impressed, instead busying himself with having a smoke. Noticing her flat stare, he smiles, and gestures with the already lit ciggy, “You mind?”

“No, I don’t mind.”

It would hardly do to say otherwise, after all. Not when she’s trying to be as grown-up as possible.

“Want one?”

She contemplates it a moment, she really does, but then she remembers what Billy told her about first time smokers and how amateur they look with all the coughing and decides that she better not tonight. Besides, Julius would smell it on her as soon as he sees her.

“No, thank you, it’s awfully kind to offer.”

He hums, squinting as he studies her a moment, his now empty hand – he’s placed the matches inside his pocket – tapping out against the cold metal, right beside her arm. She debates the merit of pulling away, but thinks better of it under his scrutiny.

“Never had a smoke, huh?”

“I’ve never had much need for it.”

“Too young?”

It’s true, but it’s hardly something she likes reminding of. It’s not that she wants to be grown-up already, quite the contrary. It’s only that there is a certain amount of respect that comes with the age of cigarettes and pinned hair. People take you seriously then, if her brother is anything to go by.

“I’ll have you know that I’ve never been stopped by a number before and I certainly won’t start now,” Rose tells Mr. Stark firmly, crossing her arms and putting her back to the city.

“Yeah, all twelve years of your life.”

“Thirteen, thank you. Nearly fourteen.”

He grins, as if this is all highly amusing to him, shakes his head and takes a long drag, “You gotta be careful, make sure to take it into your chest and not your mouth,” he tells her easily, sounding for all the world like he’s telling her how to poach an egg. He lets out a curl of smoke through his nose and mouth, turning to her and propping an elbow on the ledge. “Hold it for a few seconds and then you let it out.”

“Are you an expert, then?”

“I’ve been smoking since I was fourteen,” he shrugs, as if it explains everything. “And, I’m a genius.”

She ignores the second bit, Daddy’s told her that as well. Mr. Stark telling her as well doesn’t say anything good about him. It certainly isn’t very impressive, anyhow, and that seems to be what he’s aiming towards.

“How old are you, anyway?” she asks suddenly, doe eyes tracing the flickering city lights.

“Sixteen.”

“Oh,” Rose is surprised; he’s younger than Billy and holds himself as if the opposite were true. Funny young man, he is, and she knows he really is a genius or he wouldn’t be on her terrace at god only knows what hour. “That’s not very old at all.”

“Who wants to be old?”

Rose finds herself at a loss of words, so much to consider and not very much to conclude, except, “My father says you’re an engineer, Mr. Stark.”

“I’m so much more than that, kid,” he finishes his cigarette, then flicks it to the floor and toes it, mirroring her stance over the railing and looking out over the city with her. “I’m the future. Everything you’re looking at right now, I’m gonna make bigger and better. More durable.”

“I rather like how it is now,” she counters with a frown. “It’s unlike anything else in the world, so singular and full of life. It’s kind of… magical.”

“That’s very poetic,” he says it like it’s a compliment and an accusation all at once. “Sentimental. Dames’r always real sentimental. I’m more futuristic myself.”

“Very,” she corrects absentmindedly. “Not real, very. And not dames, Mr. Stark, ladies.”

Out of the corner of her eyes, she sees his eyes crinkle in a grin. “Sure thing.”

Considering how this evening has gone so far, Rose decides that she likes Mr. Stark after all. Sure, he’s full of hot air like no one she’s ever met, but he treats her as if her words are legitimate and not just a child’s nonsensical babbling. “Tell me about yourself, Mr. Stark. Sixteen, futuristic genius, and impressive enough to earn my father’s esteem, what else is there to know?”

“Well, let’s not forget devilishly handsome, charming and on my way to making millions,” Mr. Stark flashes another smile. “Not that you care about all of that.”

“Do you care about all that?” she only asks because she’s read enough of Mothers novels to understand that intelligent men who don’t work for something they feel passionately about passionately despise working.

“’Course I do, I’m making my dreams come true here.”

“Sure, but you’re a scientist at heart, an inventor. Don’t you do all of that because you love it?”

He faces her fully now, brow furrowed, neither a denial nor an acknowledgement and doesn’t say anything for a full minute. “You never did tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“Why you’re out here.”

“Well, we’ll be leaving tomorrow,” it’s her turn to shrug; a habit Mother is forever chastising her for. “It would be a waste not to enjoy the view while I’m here.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

In response, he pulls out a case – gold, thin, engraved – and slipping out another cigarette for himself before offering them to her, “Smoke?”

Rose hesitates a moment, hand previously gripping the railing now brushing feather light over the small, neat, white spheres, and pulling back uncertainly. She wants to, she really does, and he probably won’t laugh at her too much if she makes a fool of herself. Rose glances upwards, large, bright brown eyes between sweeping lashes, and she meets his amused gaze inquisitively.

“Well?” He gives the case a little shake, brows raised.

Before she can contemplate it too much, she snags one, folding her fingers around it the way she’s observed so many women do on this very balcony. It feels silly, trying to be all grown-up and holding a cigarette in her night gown, winter coat and bare feet. She gives a little laugh as he takes it, lighting a match and taking an exaggerated drag for show before passing it back to her.

“So… now I just,” Rose imitates taking a puff.

“Just take it into your chest,” he reminds her, starting on his own. She does. And then he’s trying not to laugh at her panicked, spluttering coughs. “Easy, kid, nice and slow. Take a breath and draw it into your chest.”

Her second draw is steadier, deeper, and she only coughs three times, face hot and mouth ashy. Her fourth is a quick battle to keep her breathing even and by the seventh, Rose is quite finished with the experience.

Catching sight of the delicate watch-face peeking from between tanned skin and fur coat, she drops what’s left of her lesson into the sterling ashtray – Mother has one in every room and on every balcony – behind them. Heading to bed would be in her best interest, as would a bottle of perfume at this point.

“I’m not very fond of the experience,” Rose says primly, rubbing her fingers against her lips to alleviate the peculiar tingling she assumes is completely in her mind. Billy never mentioned anything about it, so it simply must be her imagination, she decides as she heads inside.

He shrugs carelessly, dropping his smoldering stub to the ground and tucking empty hands into trouser pockets, “So what do you like?”

“My new holiday dress, for one,” Rose states, and at his incredulous snort, she wavers by the doorway.

And for some reason, it’s a real clincher as to why, but when he’s looking at her with those eyes, so intelligent and challenging and arrogant, yet so convinced that there is more to her, as if he sees her – as if Howard Stark is able to sense that there is something so much bigger inside Rose Saxby that he’s set on discovering – and suddenly she wants to share her secrets with this older boy who thinks she’s mature enough to smoke his cigarettes.

“I don’t believe that for a moment,” he tells her haughtily, poised and self-assured in a way sixteen-year-old boys rarely are.

Well, that is to say, Rose doesn’t actually know many sixteen-year-old boys, but she’s got brains in her head. She can imagine well enough.

“Elizabeth Blackwell,” she admits shyly, fingers twisting in fur, her gaze set firmly on the city’s skyline. Then, because Rose has never met a challenge she hasn’t committed to whole-heartedly – she’s got a cigarette stub sitting on her mother’s second favorite ash-tray to prove it – she repeats the name, firmly, clearly, perhaps louder than she should. “Elizabeth Blackwell, the physician.”

For some reason, he’s infinitely amused by this, but whatever the reason is, Rose doesn’t feel very threatened by it. Instead, she returns his smirk with a grin of her own and it’s as if they understand each other, as if they share a common factor in the equations which represent them.

“Does your father know you want to be a medical champion, Miss Saxby?”

“Mr. Stark, my father doesn’t know a lot of things,” she nods towards the ground, his ashy stubs inky smears in the thick blanket of darkness. “Goodnight. I suggest you retire soon, if you plan to be at all awake for the trip upstate.”

He waves her off, unconcerned, “I don’t need much sleep.”

She smiles, shrugs – Mother isn’t here to reprimand her, after all – and turns back towards the house, “Suite yourself.”

As she climbs the grand staircase, feet shuffling lightly over thick carpeting, Rose decides that she’ll never forget tonight. Not ever, not for anything. She’ll go to her grave, just as in love with the winter night and the city skyline as she is in this moment. Tonight will be the night which marks the start of her journey from childhood to adulthood, for no particular reason beyond that she feels as if it should. And Rose wants to keep this moment like a photograph, frozen exactly as it is, a suspended event in history with little meaning beyond beauty and sentiment.

And even when Julius figures her out the next morning within seconds, she doesn’t regret any of it.

Well, she does regret getting caught.

She tells Howard Stark just that at dinner the next night, leaving Billy to guess at what they are laughing about while she brandishes her bruised, bloodied knuckles like they are medals of Honor and not a mark of shame.

 

*

2008  
North Conway, New Hampshire

“And you just, what, found her in the middle?”

“Yes, Sir.”

To say Phil Coulson is skeptical of the whole thing would be an understatement. Energy readings like the ones they’ve just found are very few and far between, the scorched and marked earth is only serving to further his reservations and the unconscious woman they’ve pulled out of the mess is covered so completely and absolutely in the strange radiation is prime suspect.

Or victim.

“Did you personally find her?”

“Yes, Sir. Just lyin’ there, on the ground, all sprawled-like and out cold,” the railroad tech scratches at his whiskery cheek. “Thought I was imaginin’ things at first cuz she was all glowin’ and stuff. She wasn’t all there either, like kinda vague and not and she’s, uh,” a faint blush dusts over his round face as he fidgets, “a real looker. Like, that model woman who’s on all them big billboards up on route I-62 – uhh. Yeah. So I thought she wasn’t really, um. Real.”

“And what made you think she was?”

“Uh, she tried standin’ and – well, I think that’s what she was doin’ – and she started bein’ all sick and hyperventilatin’ and throwin’-up and stuff. So I figured, lady needs help, why would I imagine somethin’ like that, ya know? I called out, hopin’ to reassure her or somethin’, I donno, she just started gettin’ all drowsy-like, ya know? Like she’d been drugged, or somethin’. Ya know?”

Makes sense, Phil thinks. He doesn’t know anyone who could survive exposure to so much foreign energy and walk away without some unpleasant biological response. At least this doesn’t resemble the Culver incident, the last thing he needs is another Hulk wracking up more property damages.

“And then what happened?” He asks calmly.

“She went all solid and started turnin’ pasty coloured and passed right out. By the time I got there, the sky was completely black, like god’d taken one a them sharpie markers to the sun. Soon as I touched her, thinkin’ I’d try and help anyway, the glow faded, her skin was like ice and them clouds cleared up, as if nothin’ happened. Then I saw the forest and the road and the train tracks and I called central,” he motions vaguely towards his radio set and shrugs. “They called y’all and here we are, ain’t we?”

Phil smiles blandly at this, and holds out a hand for the tech to shake. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Cole. I’ll leave you my card, if anything else comes up, if there are any other details you think relevant, don’t hesitate to call.”

“Sure thing, Sir. And, uh, I hope the lady gets better real quick, yeah?”

Vaguely amused at the power of a pretty face, Phil nods. “We’ll do our best to ensure she does, Mr. Cole.”

The agent leaves Harry Cole with a plain, unassuming business card containing an email and string of numbers before heading towards the ambulance, signalling Barton and Calvin over from their own interrogations.

“Report?”

“Dr. Thursberg confirmed that the radiation has the same signature readings as the cube, Sir. And whatever it was, it’s the only thing that could have caused the sudden change in weather and ozone response,” Calvin replies evenly, blinking once. “The strongest energy readings are coming off of the subject and the ground beside the railway.”

“The subject hasn’t woken up yet?”

“Nope,” Barton says, smirking, “and it’s gonna be one hell of a wake-up when she does.”

Phil knows he’s referring to the hand-cuffs. Necessary action is necessary action, Barton understands this and Coulson is never one to shun protocol.

“I think the radiation headache is going to be more concerning,” Calvin mutters drily, coming to a stop beside one of the three medical attendants. “Agent Thompson.”

“Oh, hello, Cameron,” she glances up from her StarkPad with a smile, eyes distracted but genuine warmth present nonetheless. “Have you seen the patient yet?”

“Uh, actually-“

“It’s all so fascinating!” She bulldozes right over any actual response the blonde operatives agent might have without even acknowledging his respond. “She’s quite something, all that energy keeps messing with the machinery, according to Mazy, but I think that the abnormal readings are actually pretty accurate. Which is crazy! I mean, who can – oh, hello there, Clint, hello Phil.”

“Hey, Maggie,” Barton nods easily. “Exciting day?”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to say so, no, but scientifically speaking, that is, speaking from a purely academic standpoint, it’s quite something.”

Phil wonders what it says about him that scientist of any kind still manage to amuse him after all this time. “Is Agent Mazy available, Agent Thompson?”

She blinks, a rapid succession of fluttered lashes behind rimless glasses, her thought process temporarily derailed, and then she’s blushing and nodding just as emphatically.

“Yes, yes, of course, he’s right inside.” She peaks around the open doors and into the ambulance. “Mazy?”

“Yeah?”

“Agent Coulson wants to speak with you,” she tells him, smiling. She must have received some sort of reply because she turns to them and cheerfully sweeps a hand back in invitation, “After you, gentlemen.”

Phil’s first thought when he catches sight of the woman who may be responsible for the latest natural disaster and the key to unlocking more information about the cube, is that she doesn’t look to be in good shape at all. His second thought is that Mr. Cole had been right, she is rather pretty.

Barton whistles. “Well, that puts a new spin on sleeping beauty, doesn’t it?”

“She’s barely alive, Barton,” Mazy admonishes in his deep, gravelly baritone, stethoscope in use and frown etched deep.

“All I’m saying is if she’s attempting world destruction, I’m hanging up my bow and letting her.”

Calvin snorts, “Nothing new there.”

“Agent Thompson says that you believe the machinery isn’t responding well to the radiation?” Phil steps in quickly before Barton and Calvin get personal. Barton has the frustrating ability to turn a perfectly calm situation into absolute chaos and vice versa. As a spy and assassin, very helpful, but as Clint’s handler, it’s very unaccommodating.

“Well, it’s either that, or we’ve got a physical impossibility on our hands here,” the African American biologist and physician shrugs. “The vitals I’m getting off of her? They belong to a dead person. If she didn’t have a heartbeat, I’d say she’s ready for an autopsy. As it is, she’s definitely got one.”

“Let’s try and keep it that way, shall we?”

“The thing is, her core temperature kept dropping earlier, and then it spiked, climbing crazy high in like, three minutes,” Maggie tells them, clambering up onto the truck and fiddling with some test tubes. “Caleb just went to get some soil samples and copper wire from the scientists, by the way,” she waves her cell phone in Mazy’s direction as an aside. “And the amount of proteins we’re finding in her blood, as well as everything else? Dehydrated, blood pressure rocketing from one end of the spectrum to the other, and severely concussed, if the lack of proper dilatation response is any indication. But her brain scans show insanely advanced activity, as if she’s fully conscious of what is happening around her, more so than the average individual.”

Someone whistles from deeper inside the ambulance, “And you were worried about the headache,” Clint snorts, already flipping through the pile of personal items on the countertop, purse upturned and an expensive leather wallet open in his hand. “This hers?”

Thompson glances up, “Hmm? What was that?”

Barton waves the wallet in the biochemist’s direction.

“Oh, yes. But we haven’t cleared them for – or, go ahead and disregard the bio-hazard,” trails off in defeat as Barton does what he does best, ignores orders and throws himself in dangers way. In this case, he’s checking for any bills or usable cash.

“Any identification, Agent?” Phil asks, watching as Jack Mazy sets up the unknown woman for what appears to be a blood transfusion.

“Hold up,” Barton starts pulling out cards. “Applebee’s gift card, a Borders membership card, a couple visas, Blockbusters, and Dominic’s… and a New York state ID for one Diana Marie Strauss.”

Almost as if she was responding to the assassin, the dark haired woman on the gurney starts twitching, knocking the syringe right out of Mazy’s hand and back arching off the bed, body pulling against the restraints.

Thompson yelps in surprise, Phil and Calvin dive backwards, instinctively drawing weapons as machines beep furiously and Mazy swears, stubbing his toe on the leg of the medal stretcher.

“Shoot, quick, get those undone,” Mazy yells, pushing the fastenings undone on the heavy nylon holdings as quickly as he can. “She’s having a seizure!”

Just as Phil and Maggie move to help, all the machines quiet to a steady, even surveillance, she comes down to a startling stillness and her eyes open, sightless and elusive.

“How- how..” her voice rasps, low and overwrought, fighting a battle for every syllable as she searches the room sightlessly, and they all watch her eyes drift closed and her breathing even out.

“Well, that was totally not creepy,” Clint clears his throat after a full minute of silence, clicking the safety back in place and holstering his gun.

“Oh…” Maggie says faintly, taking a shaky step towards the numerous monitors. “Her vitals are… perfect. That’s… that’s good?”

Mazy shakes his head, meeting Phil’s uneasy gaze head-on. “I don’t like this, Coulson. At all.”

Phil nods back, stepping down into the balmy New England summer air, thinking that he isn't much a fan of this either.

Barton finds him twenty minutes later, brows drawn and lips quirked sideways in bemusement as he crouches next to Phil and the IT Specialist attempting to forensically replicate the radiation blast.

“Coulson, we’ve got a… situation.”

“Yes?” Phil watches the blast replay and frowns, “Are you sure it came from the west and grew outwards?”

The specialist starts clicking away on his laptop and Phil stands, brushing dirt from his trousers, “What’s the situation, Agent?”

“We got a hit on the subject,” Barton pauses, and from his tone, Phil just knows this case is about to send him another curve ball. “Diana Marie Strauss, twenty-three, grew up in upstate New York, graduated cum laude from Stanford’s engineering program, and current ICU patient at Crouse Hospital. Who’s been in a coma for months.”

Phil is momentarily at a loss for words, thinking this one more a knuckle ball than a curve. The subject is meant to be in an intensive care ward in a different state, and somehow ends up at the epicenter of all of this. And in civilian clothes and with her purse in toe, no less.

“What did the hospital say?”

“They won’t give us anything, Sir,” Clint replies, arms crossed and shades obscuring what Phil knows are some intense suspicions.

Phil sighs, knowing the only way to get disclosure is to make a personal visit. A trip like that could take the rest of his day, but he really isn’t finding many options. Anyone he would typically send to get the Intel is currently indisposed, and Phil isn’t about to trust just anyone with something like this.

“Alright. Someone get me a fresh comms set, I’m heading out. Barton, you stay with the girl. Get Goldstein to dig up everything there is on her, I want it all. Makes sure Strauss is her real name.”

“On it, Sir.”

When Diana Marie Strauss proves to be a simultaneously legitimate alias and convenient dead end, Coulson tells Fury what he's suspected since this morning's Code Delta Zed was activated.

"What are you thinking, Coulson?"

"I'm thinking," he steps passed an elderly man searching through his wife’s purse in middle of the hospital reception hall and smiles at the nurse at the check in station. "I’m thinking S.H.E.I.L.D. is stepping into something bigger than just natural energy sources and tide manipulation."

With that, he signs off the comms line, and holds out his badge for the nurse to examine, “Hello, Special Agent Phil Coulson, SHEILD. I was wondering if there was someone I could speak to about one of your ICU patients.”


	2. Chapter 2

2011  
Atlantic City, New Jersey

 

Diana likes to think of Greggory Wiltshire as the yin to her yang, the light to her dark, the Barbie to her Becky, the Clark Kent to her Bruce Wayne, the Steve Rogers to her Bucky Barnes – essentially, they share a common past, are formed from the same mold and are part of a natural, complimentary extension of one another. At the core, they are neither the same nor alike, yet they are the balance for one another. And that’s why sometimes she finds herself so completely tied in to Greg that she doubts she has much existence without him. And she knows, the way she knows the empty spaces of her own mind and the burning, aching parts of her own soul, that he feels the same way. 

So when she comes in at three in the morning after a day spent pulling recon and consulting with Professor Xavier and finds the eleven year-old boy fast asleep in her living room, it’s hardly a surprise. It’s actually kind of expected.

It’s how she knows that she isn’t wrong in assuming that the broken pieces of Diana and Greg have fit together into something resembling family. 

“Hey, little man,” she whispers, crouching down beside the couch and placing a hand on his shoulder, “You heading to bed anytime tonight?”

Clearly, he has fallen victim to the couch’s varied charms because while it’s not the nicest, it is missing just the right amount of springs for sinking in and not thinking of moving for hours after long missions - or, when staying up late waiting for long missions to end. 

He blinks up at her, blue eyes glazed with sleep and rounded cheeks flushed, the stitched pattern from the couch imprinted on the left side of his face serving as evidence to the time he’s spent pressed against the scratchy material. It’s so adorable that Diana can’t help but think that the twelve dollar investment she made when purchasing the monstrosity of a sofa had been well worth it. 

Also, the elderly couple hosting the yard sale she’d found it in are actually super awesome and understand the trials of amnesia, if only due to Mr. Avila’s brother developing Alzheimer. Mrs. Avila makes a point of inviting Diana to dinner once a month, if for no other reason but to see how a lost mind can still manage to create and rebuild life.

“You’re back late,” he tells her blearily, rubbing a hand through fine blond hair, setting it on end like he’d lost a fight with a blow-dryer.

“Observant, much?” she teases, shuffling back as he stands. “Go sleep in your own bed, kid. It’s cold out here.”

He takes the time to consider this statement, and then frowns, just standing there. “Right.”

Eyebrow raised, she heads towards the dining room table and pulls her guns out from under her jacket, sets it on the table, reaches for the costume-made rag in her open weapons vault and starts disassembling her handguns with quick, clean movements.

“How’s your mom?”

Greg’s face screws up as he watches her take apart a Colt Mustang XSP like the pro she is and huffs. “How’s your mom?”

“Brat,” Diana’s nose wrinkles after a second of silence stretches into two.

His eyes stay on her hands, memorizing the way she pulls the gun apart, arms wrapped firmly around his middle and shoulders hunched forward. She’s not sure if he’s protecting himself from the cold or from life itself and she’s hardly about to ask. Besides, it’s likely the answer would make them both exceedingly uncomfortable.

“I think she’s getting worse,” he says finally, and his tone settles in the void used by people who wish they don’t care as much as they do and desperately wanting wishes to come true. “Didn’t even wake up today. Just kind of laid there with the TV on and on her meds all day.”

“At least she wasn’t drinking.”

He blinks, and they both know the only reason for that is Diana and Greg’s two hour hunting party last Monday. If they hadn’t managed to clean the house of all alcohol, chances are Greg’s mom would be tanked to the gills. But all he says is, “Right.”

She’s moving on to the Glock now, sliding the ammo magazine onto the table and checking the firing chamber for the last cartridge. Diana can’t exactly place the why of the situation, all she knows is that gun safety is so ingrained in her, it’s only natural to assume that it’s a sizable part of her life since before New Hampshire. Her mother claims to know nothing about it, saying Diana had been a karate-lessons-every-Tuesday-and-swim-team-every-Thursday sort of child, mixed in with Mathletes and gymnastics competitions on the weekends. Susanne Finchley-Strauss has medals and photos to prove just what sort of perfect angel she’d raised, all artistically lined up in the heavy wooden bookshelves decorating her living room. 

Everything with Susanne Finchley-Strauss is about success and aesthetics. If her career as a corporate media lawyer isn’t proof enough, then her most recent stint under the plastic surgeon’s knife definitely is. Not to mention the affair she had with Dr. Ross, the one responsible for her latest Botox procedure. Chances are her efficiency with guns has to do with her father and if that’s the case, her mother either knows nothing about it or will pretend to know nothing about it until her dying day. 

And even then, she’d sooner go to the grave with the information than let Diana have a moment’s peace.

It had taken Diana all of two days to understand the nature of the relationship between her parents, and pretty it most certainly is not. She may not recall her childhood, the memories lost somewhere behind the wall in her mind, but it hardly takes anything more than a pair of eyes to recognize the level of dysfunction that comes along with broken marriages and high society temperaments. 

Her 26 is in pieces and her mind is miles away. Greg is still standing there, watching her clean her weapons and probably contemplating the complexities of his own parent-child relationship, eyes drooping and face slack with exhaustion.

Clicking the magazine back into place, she drops the gun and sighs, “I’ll check in before I conk out, okay, kid? You can sleep here tonight.”

“I usually do.”

“That’s why it wasn’t an offer,” she grins, eyebrows rising significantly. “Now get out of my living room before you fall flat on your face.”

“You’d catch me first.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” she replies, throwing her cotton aside and reaching for a new Q-tip to wipe down her Colt.

“Yes you would,” he says, heading for the back hallway. 

“I really wouldn’t. And brush your teeth this time.”

“Really would, Miss I’m-A-Superspy.”

He’s right, of course, she certainly would, but that doesn’t keep her from rolling her eyes and ignoring him. Soon the sounds of running water and rustling cloth fill her apartment and Diana relaxes that little bit more because she’s always been the kind of person who likes having all her eggs in one basket. 

Stashing her side-arms, Diana pulls on some old sweats, flicks on the TV, and then sets herself up on the couch with a cold bear and left-over pizza. The clock over the fireplace ticks loudly, and with Bob’s Burgers providing a steady supply of background noise, it’s not long before Diana is lost in the blank space between conscious thought and sleep.

A sudden scratch against her window throws her right back into full alert, eyes blinking open as she draws her Colt and drops into a defensive stance just in time to catch Clint climbing into her living room with the ease of a trained operative.

“Whoa, hold up, it’s just me!” Clint calls, hands outstretched.

Heartbeat hammering in her ears, Diana swears, clicks back on the safety and stands to her full height, muscles loosening. “Darn it, Barton. Are you allergic to doors?” 

The archer shrugs, pulling off his heavy parka. “You, kid, are looking unusually jumpy for a government agent. Rough day?”

“You have no idea,” she says, thinking about what she’s discovered today. He goes for her beer, she smacks his hand away. “Get your own, HawkGuy.”

Unimpressed, Clint raises an eyebrow, “Clever. You come up with that on your own?”

“Do not even start with me. And keep it down in there, Greg is sleeping.”

There’s some serious rummaging going on in her kitchen and it takes a lot of self-control, but somehow Diana manages to sit back on the couch and not freak out about letting Barton near her stove. 

“What are we watching?”

“One Hundred and Ten Ways to Kill a Hawk.”

The blond snorts from somewhere in her fridge, “Boring. Where’d you move the cheddar?”

“It’s still in the cheese box.”

“No it’s- oh, yeah. Found it,” something falls, loudly, and Clint whines even louder, “aww, chipotle, no.”

“Barton, I swear,” she warns, and in response, he waves a hand at her.

“So, while you pull up Dog Cops,” and now he flashes her one of those grins, the one that says he knows just how much he’s getting to her and just how much he doesn’t care, “I’m going to point out that you are avoiding. So, my little prodigy, tell me your problems. I am here to listen.”

She laughs, and points to the plate of nachos he’s preparing for himself, “You totally forgot to go grocery shopping, didn’t you?”

“That too,” Clint shrugs, shameless. He’s settled into the couch now, snagging the remote from where it’s been resting next to her feet on the coffee table. Something Diana’s mother has told her is a ghastly habit she is washing herself clean of because according to Susanne, loving mother that she is, she’s done all she can to help her daughter be rid of it. To be honest, Diana only barely managed not to choke on her laughter because when has putting your feet up on the coffee table become a sign of bad breading, she doesn’t know, but she sure does find it amusing. “So, what’s up, buttercup?”

“I’m thinking our Hit and Run Man is actually our Hit and Run Men.”

“Well, that’s great.”

“Hmm, yeah, so I suspected a mutant was involved so I went to consult the professor, right?” She dips the last of the pizza in his guacamole, “Turns out I’m not far off the mark. Only, it’s more like there is more than one mutant playing around with some insane tech and some really great masterminds.”

“What kind of mutation?”

“One of them can pull a Susan Storm and one can walk through solid mass. At least, that’s what we’ve gotten so far. And listen, Sheldon Krinskey, this guy I used to date in college,” Diana says date, what she means is fooled around because getting serious with a good Jewish boy would have given her mother way too much nachas for Diana to stomach. “He works for the defense and security contractors who had the Hope Diamond deal and he said he’d try to get a read on heat signatures.”

Well, that wasn’t all Krinskey had said, but there is a limit to what she’s willing to share with Barton. Also, again, good Jewish boy is a no-no and she has no time or patience to mess around with a civilian. Besides, Mrs. Bernstein told Diana last week at synagogue all about Krinskey’s mother and her quest to have him settle down finally.

All Diana has to say to that is no thank you.

“Must be nice to have non-homicidal ex’s to ask normal favors from,” Barton muses absently, seemingly in a completely different mind-space then where Diana had left him.

She stares at him a second, not sure which bit to address first. The bit about homicidal ex’s is just, okay, yes, his taste in women is as dangerous as his addiction to artificial spray cheese and his day job but that’s mostly because he’s masochistic and dates women with the same job description and/or alcohol consumption habits as him. And so far as the favors piece went…

“What about tracing heat signatures of two rogue mutants stealing historically world-famous diamonds and new-age weaponry strikes you as normal?”

“Normal for us, I mean.” He pops open another beer and turns to the monitor. “If I asked Bobbi anything, hell, if I spoke to Bobbi, I would be limping around right now. Probably not even that.”

“Bobbi has a lot of anger issues.”

“You’re telling me,” he mutters, scooping up extra beans with his half-nacho. “Anyway, Tash and I have been talking about moving in.”

“Together?”

“What? No, been there, done that, nearly lost a limb for it, thanks,” this is what Diana means about his taste in women, obviously. “No, moving in on the mark from the Terrioni case.”

“That makes much more sense, considering I hadn’t known you guys were a thing other than your whole… weird spysassin twins thing.”

“Is there more than one kind of thing here?”

“Apparently.”

“Huh.” A beat, then Clint shrugs and finishes his beer. “So, you in?”

Startled and exhausted, it takes Diana a moment to realize that she really has no idea what they are discussing anymore, and her face screws up in confusion, “What?”

“Well,” Barton pushes some cheese to her side of the plate and Diana gets very suspicious now. “I’m going as Tash’s security guard, and she can use a PA to sell the bit. Plus, having a weapons engineering expert around a gun smuggling ring would probably be more helpful than not.”

Eyebrows raised, she considers this for a moment, “Coulson is gonna love this.”

“He already does.”

“My mind is going kind of wonky right now,” she reminds him. “Memories have been doing the touch and go thing all week.”

“It’s Tuesday,” Clint points out easily through a mouthful of tortilla chips and toppings. “And the fresh turf will help. Also, I just finished your sour cream. So really, your best bet is leaving on a new op for a week and then you can get back to Crinkly.”

“Krinskey,” she corrects absently and then nods. She’s at a dead end anyway, so far as her case goes. And if she has to remember another piece of her childhood while sitting in Manhattan traffic, she will probably commit murder or something else equally ridiculous and drastic. Which will land her in jail, and since that’s the lesser of her options here…. 

“Fine, but we’re back before December twelfth.”

“Greg starts vacation?” Clint asks knowingly.

“Greg starts vacation,” she confirms, standing and stretching. “Clean up after yourself when you’re through or I’m telling Natasha you didn’t manage to clear the living room without my gun trained on you. Also, the guest room is open.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because in my head, Clint only socializes when there is food or people to shoot, and even then it's mostly the first.

**Author's Note:**

> So, thoughts? Obvi, this is my first try at this thing. And I don't have an editor or beta, so all mistakes belong to me. So, tell me if it sucks. Tell me if it's awesome, too.  
> Lots of love for reading this far!


End file.
